 | English Roses |  |
PRE-EXISTENCE.
I cannot say what others think, I know I had a life
In former lands on battle's brink and fought a faded strife;
For visions of old gallant fields and shivered helms and battered shields
Come to me often back,
With tossing crests and mailèd breasts and all the struggle's stern behests,
And gild my quiet track—
With glories that are dead and gone and yet do somehow linger on,
In splendid wrath and wrack.
I see the squadrons as they clash, the iron froth and fear,
When it is better to be rash and face thè destined spear;
I hear the riving and the driving of red blades that hiss,
The thunder and the bliss.
In former lands on battle's brink and fought a faded strife;
For visions of old gallant fields and shivered helms and battered shields
Come to me often back,
With tossing crests and mailèd breasts and all the struggle's stern behests,
And gild my quiet track—
With glories that are dead and gone and yet do somehow linger on,
In splendid wrath and wrack.
I see the squadrons as they clash, the iron froth and fear,
When it is better to be rash and face thè destined spear;
I hear the riving and the driving of red blades that hiss,
The thunder and the bliss.
I cannot dream what others tell, I am sure an age ago
Within a dreary cloistered cell I lived and prayed below
And sought for what I hardly knew, while round my peace the tempest blew
But could not enter in;
The world's mad waves were ghastly graves for herds of overdriven slaves
With sorrow and the sin,
But I in vigils lone and late recked not of brothers' bitter fate—
Who suffered or might win.
And now at wakeful morning times my bosom yet seems girt
With music of departed chimes and the rude horsehair shirt,
And then the tolling and the knolling of the past matin bell
Revives the buried spell.
Within a dreary cloistered cell I lived and prayed below
And sought for what I hardly knew, while round my peace the tempest blew
But could not enter in;
The world's mad waves were ghastly graves for herds of overdriven slaves
With sorrow and the sin,
But I in vigils lone and late recked not of brothers' bitter fate—
Who suffered or might win.
414
With music of departed chimes and the rude horsehair shirt,
And then the tolling and the knolling of the past matin bell
Revives the buried spell.
I cannot guess what others feel, but certain am I yet
Once with a weapon more than steel in summers that have set
I lived, and listening peoples hung upon the passion of my tongue
Which gave unwritten law;
And sharp as swords my burning words made and unmade the kings and lords,
As creatures out of straw;
While downtrod masses hailed a home, a hospitable sacred dome,
Within my shadow's awe.
And still when I behold a wrong or fret at cruel ire,
My spirit rushes into song and soars on wings of fire,
And with the yearning comes returning in its dreadful dower
Of all my ancient power.
Once with a weapon more than steel in summers that have set
I lived, and listening peoples hung upon the passion of my tongue
Which gave unwritten law;
And sharp as swords my burning words made and unmade the kings and lords,
As creatures out of straw;
While downtrod masses hailed a home, a hospitable sacred dome,
Within my shadow's awe.
And still when I behold a wrong or fret at cruel ire,
My spirit rushes into song and soars on wings of fire,
And with the yearning comes returning in its dreadful dower
Of all my ancient power.
I cannot judge what others may, I know in centuries past
My life was a mean drudge's day and learned to toil and fast;
And never finished was the round of hateful work which grimly ground
My body in the dust,
And ceaseless woes were hourly foes and racked me as with earthquake throes
At their own wicked lust;
When time was an increasing task and mocked at rest I fain would ask,
With creeds and codes unjust.
But still when labour more than meet again on me is laid
I hear the tramp of plodding feet which seek but find not aid,
And on my bending back unending burdens fall and still
I tread the iron mill.
My life was a mean drudge's day and learned to toil and fast;
And never finished was the round of hateful work which grimly ground
My body in the dust,
And ceaseless woes were hourly foes and racked me as with earthquake throes
At their own wicked lust;
When time was an increasing task and mocked at rest I fain would ask,
With creeds and codes unjust.
415
I hear the tramp of plodding feet which seek but find not aid,
And on my bending back unending burdens fall and still
I tread the iron mill.
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